She’d been sleeping with her boots on but now she worked them off, sighing with relief as she flexed her feet and ankles, then she slipped her feet under the first-aid box. Warmth immediately began seeping through the two pairs of socks she wore.
Cam crawled in behind her. Seeing what she’d done, he laughed and began unlacing his leather overshoes, pulling his shoes off with them. His shoulder bumped hers as he sat beside her, leaning against the rock at their backs, their feet nestled together.
Her heartbeat kicked into a higher gear. Their conversation had been mundane, but beneath the calm surface she was aware of the constant sizzle of desire. When their fingers touched as they passed the cup back and forth, or when she’d touched his face as she unwrapped the Ace bandage, she had trembled with the need for more. She’d wanted to twine their fingers together; she’d wanted to lay her palm against his bristly jaw and feel the strength of the bone beneath his skin. She wanted to feel his arms closing around her, tugging her close against him the way he had during the nights.
She had spent her lifetime never feeling quite safe, and she hadn’t realized it until she slept in his arms. It made no sense that she’d feel that way with him, because she’d never before been in such danger, but there it was. She fit with him, like two pieces of a puzzle locking together.
“We should get some sleep,” he said, closely watching her every expression. “We’ve had a tiring day.”
The sun had set and full darkness was rapidly chasing the twilight. Soon, she thought as she stretched out and nestled under their cover. He put on his shoes to go out and feed the fire, then returned to lie down beside her. His heavy arm draped over her waist and he pulled her to him, turning her so her face was nestled against his throat. He smelled like the aloe wipes, and wood smoke, and man.
He put his hand under all the shirts she wore, cupped her breast, rubbed the roughened side of his thumb over her nipple and brought it to tingling erection. She inhaled sharply. She’d meant to be calm, but calmness was beyond her. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe. This shouldn’t matter so much. He shouldn’t matter so much. Unfortunately, what should or should not be had no relation to what was.
He kissed her, his mouth light on hers. She was so tightly wound that for a moment she couldn’t relax, couldn’t respond. Just as she was beginning to sink against him, return the pressure of his mouth, he moved his lips to her temple. “Good night.”
Good night?
Good night! She stiffened in disbelief. She’d worked herself into a frenzy of worry and anticipation, and he wanted to sleep?
“No!” she protested, outrage in her tone.
“Yes.” He kissed her again, his hand still heavy on her breast. “You’re tired. I’m tired. Go to sleep.”
“Who died and put you in charge?” she demanded furiously. Oh, great; she’d descended to teenage taunts. This was twice in one day he’d destroyed her poise, she who never let turmoil ruffle the smooth surface of her life. She’d always been so careful not to let anyone matter this much to her, for this very reason…
She went very still as she gave up on her last shred of avoidance, which wasn’t working anyway. She could rationalize and hedge her bets all she wanted, but she was wasting both time and effort. Could she have fallen in love with him in just four days? As he’d pointed out, the time they’d been together was now the equivalent of about nineteen or twenty dates. Logically, he was right.
This was love. This was what people talked about, this painful, giddy, sorrowful, joyful, confusing explosion of emotion that didn’t respond to reason. It was like being drunk without the depressing effects that slowed thought and function. It was feeling helpless and revved up all at the same time, as if her skin were too tight for her body.
He didn’t respond to her taunt, other than to kiss her forehead as if he understood the turmoil that gripped her. Well, why wouldn’t he? He’d been in love before. He had experience. Maybe with enough experience she wouldn’t find herself acting like a fool, either, but she hoped to hell she never felt like this again. Once was enough. If this didn’t work out, she’d join a convent or maybe move to Florida where she’d be surrounded by people old enough to be her parents and she wouldn’t be tempted again.
She jerked his hand away from her breast and threw it to the side. “If we aren’t going to have sex, then keep your hands to yourself.” Realizing she was probably in love with him just made her angrier. Also realizing that she was on the verge of a temper tantrum was humiliating. She’d be damned if she’d beg him for sex. She’d be damned if she’d let him even if he begged for sex. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to grab his penis and twist it. That would teach him. Instead of Good Time Charlie, he’d have to rename it Corkscrew Charlie.
She could feel him shaking, just a little, feel the ragged edge to his breathing. He was laughing, damn him, though he had the good sense to try to hide it.
Bailey turned away from him, her fury renewed by the simple fact that she couldn’t even move so she wasn’t touching him. They had to touch; they had to lie close together, had to share their warmth.
Just to show him how little he mattered, she would go to sleep. And she hoped she snored.
Temptation gnawed at her. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to mangle him. Oh, hell—it had to be love.
She’d rather have plague. At least it was curable.
Calming herself took a good half hour, a half hour during which she felt him awake and watchful, attuned to every breath she took. How dare he be concerned about her? If he was truly that concerned, he’d have given her what she wanted.